


Of the Fellowship

by just_ann_now



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Bad Poetry, Drabble, Drabble Sequence, Ficlet, Gen, Humor, M/M, Seven Deadly Sins
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-28
Updated: 2017-06-06
Packaged: 2018-01-10 09:08:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 2,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1157812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/just_ann_now/pseuds/just_ann_now
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Drabbles and Ficlets concerning the members of the Fellowship as they journey from Rivendell onward.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Seven Deadly Sins (Boromir)

**Author's Note:**

> Het!Boromir, because I didn't know him well enough when I wrote these to realize that he wasn't.

**1\. Simple Pleasures, to a Soldier (Gluttony)**

Boromir was not a man who took great stock in possessions. Well-tailored garments made sense, saving time and bother; finely crafted armor and sword were necessities, not vain displays.

In Imladris, though, he encountered soap of such surpassing excellence that he gasped in surprise and delight. A dense creamy chunk that could have been molded to his hand, scented of lemon and rosemary. Vast quantities of hot water, and that marvelous soap – he felt his body had been recast, his aching spirit poured into a new skin.

He wondered how much he could slip into his pack without arousing suspicion.

**2\. The Land of Illusion (Pride)**

 

What surprised Boromir most about Imladris was its shabbiness. The gold leaf woodwork was cracked, the paint faded. Dead leaves littered the stone paths and crumbled in dusty corners. The guest chamber was, to his soldier’s eye, luxurious; but the steward’s son noticed the threadbare linen sheets and very faint smell of mustiness overlain with cedarwood and old rose. What was this place? Why had the dream led him here?

Travelers came, seeking answers, yet where were the libraries, the scholars and historians, the congregations of the learned? What wisdom could be found in Imladris that Gondor did not possess?

 

**3\. Exhaustion (Sloth)**

“Wake up, slugabed!” A hundred long days riding on the edge of despair; a hundred cold nights of stone under his back. At last in fabled Imladris, drugged with blessed sleep, he hears Faramir’s voice, woven into a dream of playful days long past. _Go away. Leave me be._

“Wake up, slugabed!” Through many long weeks, councils are taken, routes are surveyed, plans are laid. _Rest now. Build your strength. The road is long, and full of peril._

“Wake up, slugabed!” He hears the terror in his brother’s voice, and is shocked awake by the pounding of his own heart.

 

**4\. Second Breakfast (Greed)**

One thing Boromir appreciated about Imladris was the food, abundant and varied. Arising late one morning, he followed the aroma of something extraordinary…

“Lingonberries! In a bread with pumpkin, of all things! What is that spice, do you think? Nutmeg? Or mace?” It was astounding how the smallest one could talk so much without breathing. “Those dwarves can eat, can’t they? And those men really tuck it away. We’d starve if not for second breakfast. Good thing none of them are around right now, more for us….”

They had the grace to blush, and happily share what little was left.

 

**5\. Loneliness (Lust)**

Boromir found the elvish women beautiful, elegant , yet curiously boneless, as if they might melt away at his touch. But the curve of a breast, the sight of long fingers brushing aside a curl, the scent of jasmine – these things aroused in him such a shock of desire that he was left breathless.

He hungered suddenly for the company of his own kind: solid fleshy women of heat and passion who could kiss away all memory of pain. That girl at Edoras - what a beauty! What fire in her eyes! Yes, she would be such a one. _Eowyn._

 

**6\. Ignorance is Bliss (Envy)**

It was not that the halflings never devoted any effort to preparation. They had organized their packs, cleaned their rusty weapons, and one of them, Samwise, had visited the kitchens several times to help plan provisions for the journey.

Sometimes one would look briefly at a map, or ask a question about the weather, or might there be any inns along the way?

Mostly, though, they told stories, and played jokes upon each other, and listened enraptured to the Elvish singing each night. The possibility of danger, or pain, or failure, never seemed to trouble their minds.

Boromir envied them.

 

**7\. Shock (Wrath)**

 

“… heir to the throne of Gondor…”

No! All his life he had heard tales he had only half-believed, to find now that they were true, all true, and his world about to be turned up-side down.

And by whom? This ragged stranger with the whispery voice who would not even meet his eyes. A wanderer bearing a broken blade.

All that Boromir had desired, in the most secret depths of his heart, would finally be claimed. The winged crown, the alabaster throne, his city…

“Gondor has no king. Gondor needs no king.” For one bitter moment he denied his heritage.


	2. In Memory, Rustling Like Silk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprisingly!Het Boromir. Well, surprising for me

**In Memory, Rustling Like Silk**

I had a Haradric woman once, a whore; her skin was the softest thing I have ever touched. Her silken robe slipped off her shoulders like mist, leaving me breathless. I was almost ashamed to touch her with my torn, callused hands. Her eyes were dark as obsidian, fathomless.

These elvish women have skin like ivory, what I can see of it, smooth and cold, and their hair gleams like ebonywood. I don’t imagine that I will ever taste that skin, or bury my hands in that hair. Their eyes, too, are fathomless; gazing through me, into the past.


	3. The Weaver's Song - A Triolet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A triolet is a poem or stanza of eight lines with a rhyme scheme _abaaabab_ , in which the fourth and seventh lines are the same as the first, and the eighth line is the same as the second.

**The Weaver's Song - A Triolet**

 

When the wind blows from the river, my lord will not feel the cold.   
I’ll weave my love like armor, to shield him from all harm.   
I’ll wrap him in velvet and sable, glorious as kings of old.   
When the wind blows from the river, my lord will not feel the cold.   
Valor, beauty, honor: a thousand tales will be told.  
Dark velvet and black sable, my blood and tears to fix the charm.   
When the wind blows from the river, my lord will not feel the cold.   
I’ll weave my love like armor, to shield him from all harm.


	4. Firelight

**Firelight**

On rare occasions, Aragorn and Gandalf consider their surroundings safe enough for a small campfire. Then, they all huddle together within the fire’s feeble glow, seeking to soothe battered bodies and revive aching spirits. Murmured tales and quiet songs hold the wintry dark at bay, for a little while. 

Sometimes the firelight shimmers for a moment on the ring, barely concealed at Frodo’s throat. Sometimes the firelight reflects the gleam in Boromir’s eye as he steals a glance, then looks guiltily away. Sometimes the firelight shoots sparks heavenward where, like mortal lives, they blaze dazzlingly for a moment, then disappear.


	5. What Not To Wear

**What Not To Wear**

“Crebain!”

As they dived for cover Boromir’s eye was caught by a flash of scarlet fabric dangling from the youngling’s back pocket. Once the danger was passed, he berated him: “What is that thing, flapping about like a festival banner? Didn’t anyone tell you about subtle colors, blending in, not wearing frippery out here in the wild? “

Peregrin bristled. “It’s my handkerchief! My sister made it for me, because red is my favorite color. It’s cheerful! Nobody ever told us any rules about handkerchiefs! We never meant to be warriors, or even great travelers; we’re just here for Frodo.”

Boromir felt a quick stab of remorse. Did he not carry small keepsakes of his own, mementos of those he loved?

“Keep it well tucked away, then,” he said gruffly. “No need for a red flag on your bum; danger and trouble will find us easily enough.”


	6. Bruises

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the "Blue" challenge at Tolkien_weekly

**Bruises**

_Twack!_

_Oww!_

_Sorry!_

The blow will set yet another bruise blossoming on the little one’s forearm; shoulder, shins, and back are already bedecked with blue, purple, and green bruises. Yet for a every blow that connects, there’s “It’s nothing, let’s go on!”, “”No, I didn’t even feel that one!”, “Are you getting tired, Boromir? Perhaps you should rest now, old man?”

His fortitude amazes me. He is but a child, after all; but hidden below the child’s exuberance and curiosity and, yes, carelessness, I sense the love and loyalty and courage the little one does not even yet know he possesses.


	7. Fireside Chat

**Fireside Chat**

It was inevitable, I suppose, that the fireside chatter would turn to lasses. 

Young Meriadoc and Peregrin discoursed for some length on the subject, comparing the finer qualities of various young ladies of their acquaintance. Frodo smiled, quite wickedly for one who appeared so innocent, bringing up points that had evidently been forgotten; while Sam blushed and looked away, murmuring to himself. Legolas shook his head, eyes full of laughter; Gandalf merely “harrumphed” in his turn. 

“What about you, Boromir? Surely you have a sweetheart, or even two, back in your city?” 

Though I felt trapped by the question, I could not help but notice the Ranger listening intently, although his attention appeared to be focused on his mending. Several times during the past days I had felt his eyes upon me, that measuring glance; but what he was seeking, I was not sure. Surely he did not find the Captain of the White Tower lacking in any way? Distracted, I fumbled quickly for an answer.

“Two? That’s asking for trouble, quite more than I’m worth, even if I did have time for such things. My duties as Captain-General consume most of my time, affording little opportunity for such pursuits. Gimi, what about you? How many broken hearts did you leave behind?” I breathed a quiet sigh of relief as our companion began to regale his eager listeners with a vivid tale of a dwarf-maid and the peculiar use she made of her beard, leaving the Halflings quite literally speechless.

***

“You did not answer the question.” Aragorn’s voice was soft as he busied himself with spreading out his bedroll. We had gotten into the habit of sleeping some distance apart from the others, away from sleepy chatter and sonorous breathing and that disturbing, unearthly gaze.

“About the sweetheart? If I did have one, I would not dishonor her by discussing her in such light company; and if I did not, why would I want to look the fool by admitting it?”

“Those incorrigible halflings would not think you a fool, but cheerfully give you their considered opinion of which vices and virtues prevent you from having one. Then they will overwhelm you with good advice as to how to correct your deficiencies.” He was laughing, but then his voice softened. “ I _am_ curious, though.”

My first thought was, _What concern is it of yours?_ ; but then suddenly I was bitterly tired of it all, the years of dissembling, of hiding my nature in my own City while yearning for the measure of freedom I had found abroad. If this ranger were indeed destined to be my King, perhaps it would be best that I be honest with him from the beginning. 

“There is no sweetheart. I have never been stirred by a woman in that way, though I have grown skillful at pretense. I know that one day I shall have to marry, but until then, I do not spare them a thought. My desires follow the darker path.” 

His eyes grew wide, but then he nodded thoughtfully. “I appreciate your honesty. Such things are not unheard of; I am sorry that it causes you pain. Do you…” He seemed to hesitate, just for a moment. “Do you have a particular companion? Forgive me – it must seem strange to discuss such a thing…”

“It _is_ strange. I don’t know that I have ever spoken of this matter so openly. Yes, there is someone, a warrior noble and proud, one of the finest men I have ever known. But we are forced by circumstances to live apart, meeting most often by chance or luck. I saw him briefly, last summer, but before that, it had been four years since we last were together.”

“Four years! That must be…difficult.” His voice was still soft, conversational, yet in his eyes I caught, just for a moment, that brief flicker I had oft seen in other men’s eyes. _So._

“It is, but somehow differently, now, than it once was. When we…when we began our association, we agreed not to hold ourselves only to each other. Are we not men, with men’s needs?” The ranger nodded, his eyes dark, but he did not speak. “We have each taken our pleasure as we could . Yet I have found that as the years have gone by, it is not so much the physical act, but his company, his wisdom and understanding and good nature that I miss. It is difficult to find true friends, companions of both the heart and the mind in this world, those you can trust enough to reveal your innermost self. Have you not found it so?”

“I have; indeed, such companions are rare blessings, even more precious when they appear unlooked-for.” Then he startled me by reaching out quickly to grip my shoulder. A brief touch, yet I remember it as I remember the first time Théodred touched me, a touch that burned. Nodding his goodnight, Aragorn turned away; but I lay a long time, sleepless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A birthday ficlet for caras_galadhon and savageseraph.


	8. Rich and Fair

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two for the "Touch" challenge at LJ community tolkien_weekly. Birthday drabbles for Ribby and Foxrafer, posted March 27, 2007

For Ribby: **Rich**

 

I had imagined his touch would be rough, purposeful, hungry, and so it was, that first time. 

Ah, but the second time…

The second time, he lay me down in the moonlight, under the willow tree, the moss soft beneath me. With velvet lips he trailed kisses down my belly and thighs and lower, lower; his fingers etching my skin with the barest of caresses. 

_Please,_ I whispered, scarcely able to breathe, begging for I knew not what.

_Aragorn,_ he murmured, his voice rich like milk and honey, like silk, and I felt as though I had come home at last.

~*~

For Foxrafer: **Fair**

The morning brought a fair breeze from the South, warm and damp and full of promise. 

“It feels like Spring!” Pippin burbled; Boromir raised his head, his gaze far away. What doom would that longed-for Spring bring to us all?

Yet throughout the day birds sang, and the hopeful sun warmed our faces; we felt almost gay. I was glad of it, for each time I chanced to look in his direction, I could feel a slow flush rising as I remembered his soft breath on my heated skin, the touch of his hands, the taste of his mouth.


	9. Good For What Ails Ye

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the "Red" challenge at Tolkien_weekly.

**Good For What Ails Ye**

Winter travel took its toll in coughing and sniffling wanderers. It didn’t take a ranger to know what needed doing. 

“Might there be coneys, or partridges, roundabouts?” Treasures simmering, Sam sought early greens, dandelion, wild onion. From deep within his pack, a parting gift from kitchen-friends at Rivendell: “Dried red peppers, garlic, spices, to hearten the weary. You’ll know when you need it. Farewell, fellow cook!” 

Gasping surprise at the first spoonful – “Damn, what is this?”; appreciative belches at the last - “Well done, Sam!” 

“Hot peppers in elvish cookery! Who would have thought?” Sam spoke wonderingly.


	10. Envinyatar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the "Renewal" challenge at Tolkien_weekly

**Envinyatar**

In a few swift words my birthright was seized, claimed by ancient right; my most private hopes and dreams stripped bare as the lifeless trees in that bleak midwinter.

Bound by duty and honor, I pledge my sword and strength to this doomed quest. Through long bitter nights I guard my anger and despair, hoarding it as my secret treasure. Yet in the feeble light of lengthening days, I begin to value his wisdom, honor his compassion, yearn for his healing touch.

His warmth steals toward my sullen heart, and I can almost dare imagine a spring of Hope renewed.

"Verily, for in the high tongue of old I am Elessar, the Elfstone, and Envinyatar, the Renewer."  
The Return of the King, Book V, Chapter 8: The Houses of Healing


	11. Boromir's Prayer (While Running)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the "Tomb" challenge at Tolkien_weekly

**Boromir's Prayer (While Running)**

Please, let this not be my tomb. 

I do not fear death; as often as I have looked it in the eye, it has turned away, blinded by the glint of sunlight on my blade.

Do not make me die in the dark.

When I die, let the kiss of the sun be the last touch on my skin; the whisper of leaves, the rush of water over stone be the last sounds I hear. 

Let me take my rest under the boundless sky. If, by ill-fate, I am doomed to wander, please, let it be under the stars.


	12. No Rest For The Weary

**No Rest for the Weary**

 

How Faramir would have loved this wood! Boromir envisioned him wandering under these shimmering trees, pausing to hear the whispers in the rustling of the leaves. 

Boromir himself could take no pleasure here. Exhausted, sick with foreboding, he no longer felt himself Gondor's golden son, but a ragged wayfarer no better than his companions, trapped in a thankless journey that could only end in grief. 

_Faramir should have been sent, not I. He was the better man for this quest._

Beneath golden leaves and silver stars, Boromir begged forgiveness for his arrogance, praying that he would not fail them all.


	13. The Pause Between The Breaths

**The Pause Between the Breaths**

 

It was the task for which he had been sent. He always knew his world would end like this: entwined with his ancient enemy in a dance of death; a dizzying fall through earth, air, fire, and water into bone-shattering, mind-numbing pain. 

And then, nothingness.

In that infinite pause between the last breath and the first, stars wheeled overhead, and every day was as long as a life-age of the earth. Olórin, called Mithrandir, called Gandalf, opened his eyes to a newborn sky the color of the inside of a pearl, with freshness and vigor to face his task anew.


	14. Spring After Winter

**Spring After Winter**

Sam dreams of rain. 

The soft rain of early spring that sweetens the strawberries and coaxes the fresh green shoots of new barley from the earth. The rain that blesses and renews. 

He does not wish to wake, if waking means ash and smoke and dust and the thought of watching dear Frodo die on this barren rock. _The end of all things._ And yet – 

He opens his eyes to the patter of raindrops on leaves, a tender breeze carrying a sweet, green scent, and the sight of Gandalf – _Gandalf?_ – laughing with joy, a sound like water in a parched land.


End file.
